We Play Endlessly
by bkreed
Summary: A collection of TWD drabbles. Most involve either Carol, Daryl, or the pairing of Caryl.
1. One Little Bet Part 1

**Note: This 'fic' is officially a small collection of Caryl drabbles I have written! The first two chapters are corresponding, but the rest are completely unrelated. :)**

* * *

Daryl was back.

After all the helpless wondering, painful sorrow, and desperation to care for Judith to beat the emptiness, Daryl was back. When Rick had returned a few days ago without the younger Dixon brother, Carol had almost immediately resorted to panic; the days had passed slowly but Daryl was back.

She was tending to Judith when shouts of, "Gate, the gate! _Get the gate_!" from Rick, his drawl a faint buzz from the outside. Carol quickly handed the swaddled baby to Beth, grabbed her knife, and scrambled out through the corridors to the vast lands of the outside prison.

Rick was prying the gate open the help of Carl, Glenn banging obnoxiously on the fence to distract the walkers bordering the perimeter; they took interest in the sound and followed the noise.

Daryl, dirtier than ever, slid inside the gates. All by himself. A pat on the back from Rick, cheeky grin from Carl, and he was inside. Rick started to say something, but Carol could see Daryl cut him off, shaking his head no. His hair flopped messily onto his forehead.

Carol sprinted to the opening, running as fast as her legs could carry her. The heat sweltered; sweat already dribbling from her hairline down her temple as the sun beat down from above. She could only praise how comforting the heat was compared to the everlasting, chilling weather of the winter. As she got a better look at Daryl, she noted he was sweating and the skin not covered by flecks of dirt was bright red. She paused in front of him; an overwhelming slew of emotions strung in her head.

She hadn't prayed since Sophia had gone missing, but accidentally caught herself whispering a few words of hope for Daryl. They came true.

The two exchanged eye contact; blue the color of a foggy sky versus crystal clear pools. No words were exchanged as the two embraced. Carol could feel the heat radiating from Daryl's skin, and the first seconds were awkward, frozen, until Daryl's toned arms wrapped around her lithe body. Carol couldn't wipe the smile off her face.

After sparing Daryl some water and getting him to lay down (with a bit of a fight), Carol returned to her own cell block. It was a bit empty without Lori.

She plopped down onto her bed, smile still lingering on the corners of her lips. It wasn't until she scrambled around that she heard the crinkle of a paper under her body. Eyebrows furrowed, Carol reached under her legs and found a small, folded piece of paper. Messy, angled handwriting scrawled:

**Daryl + Carol Hug:  
**Date started—February 25 (ish? Who knows anymore? And we have nothing exactly to bet so…)

1 week (T)  
3 weeks (Glenn)

And the handwriting changed as the list went on, from loopy, girlish handwriting to printed uppercase letters. The dates varied from a week to almost six months – a little star was scribbled next to two months, Rick's name in parenthesis next to the time.

It took a moment until Carol realized what was happening.

The group was taking bets on when she and Daryl would hug, exactly as the title said. Her face turned a shade of pink, flaming at her ears, but she grinned and ran an embarrassed hand over her features.

She'd show Daryl later.


	2. One Little Bet Part 2

"Hey guys, where'd the, ah…" Glenn lowered his voice. Although Daryl was sleeping and Carol was on guard, he expressed his question to just the group around him: Beth (holding Judith), Carl, Maggie, Axel, and Tyreese's group. "…betting paper go?"

"Oh, I found it layin' 'round ya'll's stuff and it had Carol's name on it so I just dropped it off on her bed." It was Axel who came forth easily, fingers combing through his thick mustache. "They hugged earlier today so I thought it—it'd be ok to do."

"Sh—Axel, they weren't supposed to know about that. It was just a little game that kept us busy during the winter, something we've kept _hidden _from them for all this time for a reason." Glenn ran a hand through his hair. "You know Daryl's… temperament can be a bit outta wack."

"Wait, who won?" This time it was Carl who piped in. Rick's old hat was situated upon his head; it was used earlier for protection against the sun and he just hadn't taken it off. Plus, Maggie told him he looked like a 'fine cowboy' in it, and Beth was there so, with the mind of a thirteen year old boy built for impression, he kept it on. "Who won the bet?"

"Well I figgered out some calculations before I gave it to her and it'd been two months I think – " a disapproving click of the tongue from Maggie – "so your daddy did, boy." Carl beamed and nearly bounced in his chair—despite all the hardships in his childhood so far, he still had the kidlike attitude at times.

"Awesome!"

Glenn pouted; ever since his bet had passed and gone without any affection, he liked to keep tallies of how close the two had gotten. "Well, somebody should tell Rick he won. Carl, that's your job, ok?" Carl nodded a great deal of times, checked to fasten his gun to his pants loop, and scurried out of the room to outside.

"Axel just—don't tell them about the kissing bet, ok?" Beth had finally spoken; she was feeding Judith, who gurgled happily and had fallen asleep in the blonde's arms. "We started that one a little bit after and, just like the other, they don't know about it." Maggie shot a glance toward her sister, tucking a strand of short dark hair behind her ear.

"Well, can—since I ain't gettin' a chance at Carol, it seems, can I put in a bet, too?" Axel questioned, tapping the concrete beneath him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Glenn and Maggie shared a look and shrugged in unison.

"Might as well."

Axel smiled, looking up the ceiling thoughtfully. He glanced at Daryl's sleeping form on the ledge, then Carol's empty cell, stroking the mustache again. "It's really not gonna be long, considerin' how they act when they're together and not. Hm." He took a pen from the table and wrote. "Few days from today, I'll give it that."

And he finished with a flourish, settling the pen back onto the table. He handed the paper back to Glenn, propped himself up, and left the room.

Glenn, Maggie, and Beth all looked at each other.

"Well, at least I said longer than a few days," Glenn muttered.

* * *

It had been two days since Daryl returned to the prison; two days since Carol had stopped worrying constantly about his well-being, two days since he'd proved himself to be a fighter, once again.

Two days since their hug.

Carol blew out into the warm air.

Two days since the betting letter had been revealed to her. She hadn't showed Daryl yet; he'd mostly been recovering from the hasty trip back from Woodbury (something he still hadn't told anybody about). The letter, however, had been tucked into the back of her pocket, folded into sixes so it wouldn't peep out if she sat.

And now she sat on the concrete next to Daryl, legs kicked out in front of her. He was intent on something across the prison field. Walkers, stumbling aimlessly into the fence, she guessed. Rick was on guard at the moment, informing Carl how to shoot well long distance. You'd never hear a shot, just the deep hum of Rick's voice and Carl's, "Okay, okay. Okay."

"Dar—"

"It's m'fault, y'know."

Carol stared intently at him, hands curling into a ball against her chest. "What's your fault?" she asked, tongue flicking out against dry lips.

"For bein' lost. I just—I needed t'see Merle, an' Rick didn't allow it. So I went off, nearly killed myself. I got the hell outta there—fuck, I don'even know how. I just remember runnin'. Rick needed me, I thought I needed Merle." The explanation was quick, Daryl's voice gruff. By the way he ended his sentence abruptly, Carol knew he didn't want to explain any further.

"It's not your fault, Daryl. He's family, you wanted to see him. Make sure he was alive," Carol replied, voice meeker than his. A lion versus a cat, they'd joke.

"When I was runnin'…" Fuck, why'd he start? Daryl paused and Carol watched him, blue eyes inquisitive. He sighed and continued; he already regretted what was going to come out of his mouth. "Thought how I told you t'be safe. And then I'm the one that fucks up and gets myself into trouble."

Carol followed him, nodded her head briefly. Her smile – bright and radiant – shone against the sun.

"I jus'—couldn't go," a cough, "because I wanted somethin'… better t'see before I die, or something?" His voice trailed off, rose at the end like a question. He wasn't sure how to say it; Daryl wasn't one with words and he sure as hell wasn't a romance poet. But Carol grasped the idea.

So she took upon herself to make the first move.

She leaned in and their lips brushed gently. Barely a whisper. The air blew between the space as they separated. They were so close; Daryl acted on instinct next. Awkward, dumbfounded instinct, and closed the gap between them again. This time it was a bit rougher, months of denied or restrained feelings pouring out into a single action.

From the door around the corner, Axel watched them.

He had a pen and paper in hand, grin plastered to his face.

He drew a little smiley face next to his messy handwriting – 3 days (Axel) – and tucked it in his back pocket. Up to Carol's cell he went.


	3. New Me

He'd found her notebook.

It was moleskin, the edges frayed and weathered from constant battering. The book smelled like dew, dirt, and dishevel. And Daryl wasn't going to lie—it smelled awful.

It wasn't like he'd gone searching for the thing, either. He had just happened to stumble upon it, laying carelessly on the floor of their current abode; empty storage lots. The group had quickly scavenged a few units for walkers, put down and threw out the ones they found, and closed the garages. They'd grouped off to accommodate the three spaces they'd gained. Carl and Rick had been joined by T-Dog; the Greenes had called one, along with Glenn (and a watchful Hershel); which left Carol and Daryl with Lori, who's relationship with Rick had been rocky enough to sleep separately and rarely talk.

Daryl noted Carol and Lori's bond had grown stronger over time, with Lori being pregnant and Carol the only other who's gone through the same ordeal.

Or so he assumed.

And so he found himself, alone in their unit and surrounded by probably dead people's old shit, with Carol's journal. Daryl had never seen it. Not back at the quarry, not at the CDC, and not back at Hershel's farm. He had starting wondering what Carol kept in that bag after she whipped out a grenade back at the CDC.

He knew it was a bad idea. It was a fucking awful idea, really, but something inside of him was compelled to read it. He and everybody around him knew that they'd gotten closer—even to the point of awkward teasing now. He didn't know how, but it had happened.

And he didn't hate it.

The possibility that he could get inside her head, see what Carol had been thinking and see the world from her point of view, it drove him. The next thing Daryl knew, the journal was open in his hands and he was flipping to the most recent date.

He was met with a few words, surrounded by the whiteness of the paper.

_September 16, 2011._

_I hope this is for the better._

That was all. It was printed clearly on the sheet in Carol's slanted, cursive font. He recognized the date; it was a few days before he had left the home him and Merle camped out in at times. A few days before the National Guard started packing down and shooting people. That was the last sentence written. Nothing else after that.

And Daryl closed the front cover of the book, settled it in his lap. He shouldn't have read it, even if it was just the last page. The contents were for Carol and Carol only. "I hope this is for the better?" He said it quietly to himself, voice rough in the silence that encircled him.

The door opened abruptly, startling him enough to toss the journal across the dusty floor of the room. "Daryl?" Carol's clear voice filled his ears. Another thing he'd noticed—her voice used to waver a lot, especially after the barn was overrun. It's gotten straighter now, the constant quiver fading. "You here?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

The door opened fully, the sliver of light peeking in from outside. Carol stood on her toes to lock it into place, stop it from shutting again. "Why're you in the dark?" She gestured to the half-dead bulb flickering above him. He hadn't even noticed.

"Still light."

Carol grinned. "Not much, but I suppose you're right." She was quiet for a minute. Her eyes eventually drifted to the corner of the room; exactly where Daryl had thrown her journal. Carol's gaze switched from the journal, to Daryl, and back. "Oh, gosh, I guess I forgot to put it away…" she said quietly, scurrying to pick it up from its place. "You didn't... read it, did you?"

With her big blue eyes peering at him inquisitively, Daryl couldn't find himself to lie.

"I read a page." Carol visibly shrunk, settling herself against the dirt-littered wall. "Only a page, the last one." Daryl tried to keep his voice down, settle the roughness that stitched the ends of his words. Carol sighed heavily, staring at the moleskin cover. Daryl noticed she still had her wedding ring on. He opened his mouth to tell her to get rid of it, but she spoke.

"I read it at night sometimes." Carol's voice was reserved. "I know it—it's stupid. I shouldn't, but I remember how everything was before the outbreak and it just—

"It was _so much worse._"

By now it was known around the group that Carol and Sophia had come from an abusive household—Ed had showed enough of that even in the first days of the original Atlanta group. Carol would come from their secluded tent with fresh bruises scattered across her neck, her collarbone.

That was one thing the two had in common—their scars. Burn marks, broken blood vessels, pale white reminders of slurred, drunken words and smoky breath.

"I- I'm sorry, that was… I shouldn't have even said that. Sophia was…" Carol trailed off, eyes directed at a point just above Daryl's head. They lowered and the two locked eyes. "…she was my sunshine. Some entries are... pleasant. Sophia's twelfth birthday, or the day she came back from school when Ed was gone and radiating, 'Mommy, I made a new friend!'" Carol smiled sadly. "But—but I shouldn't have prayed for Ed's death. Taking the _one _light of my life was enough to realize that it was wrong."

"But… so was our marriage. This world—it's new. It's a new world. It's... it's a new me. Most people aren't given a second chance. I don't know why, and God knows I don't deserve it, but I was. I'm going to make the best out of it."

And that was it.

Daryl pushed himself up from position across from her, striding over next to her. He squatted down next to her, rolled his shoulders. His heart was hammering against his ribcage—he took her left hand in his and gestured to her ring. She flinched. It wasn't anything special; a band, silver, that wrapped around her finger. No diamond, no bling.

"Then why d'ya need this?" he asked. He showed her her finger, the ring. Carol was quiet for a minute but shook her head. When she spoke, there was absolutely no quiver.

"I don't."

So Daryl pulled it off her finger and handed it to her. Carol gaped at it, collar bone rising with the heave of her chest. One last look and her arm reeled back and threw the ring into the collection of junk next to them. She wasn't wearing her cross necklace anymore, either. Daryl raised an eyebrow, corner of his mouth twitching up to a small smile. "An' this?" He gestured to the journal. It was tightly clenched against her chest with her left arm. Carol didn't spare it a glance. Instead, her eyes met his again. They were brimmed with tears. The azure color was astounding.

"What's the point of bringing back the past?"


	4. Shelter

Prompt: _I would like to see something about Caryl going hunting… and then a storm make them to find shelter or something out of the prison… _for **asamcedesfan **on tumblr.

* * *

"Can I try using your crossbow?" It was a simple, innocent question. Carol and Daryl were out hunting; usually he preferred to go by himself but after sneaking away from the group at Woodbury to find Merle about a month ago, Rick had established a buddy system.

"Just in case," he'd said. Daryl had scoffed when Rick blatantly looked at him.

"My knife isn't exactly the best for killing squirrels," Carol continued, squinting as another petrified, angry squirrel scampered up the tree. Daryl had three, Carol had none.

"Not now. I gotta teach ya if ya wanna learn. Plus we've only got one bow, and tons o'guns. You're gettin' better with the guns," Daryl replied, taking aim at the rodent in the tree. He paused, focused—tongue sticking out (which made Carol giggle—and fired. The squirrel tumbled to the ground, arrow sticking out of its spine as blood spurted from the lethal shot. Carol gave a few admirable claps. Daryl bowed as he yanked the arrow out, crunch following the action. The squirrel was thrown with the others. Maybe Carol could make it taste better; it was a wonder what she could do with only a fire and nature.

"Guns aren't useful when huntin', unless you want to draw _them_ to you," Carol pointed out, them referring to the scattering of walkers they'd come across. Daryl nodded, agreeing with a hum, and looked to the sky. His head leaned back, Adam's apple bobbing across the stretched skin. Instead of the clear blue that had been present when the duo left the prison, thick gray clouds blanketed the old pristine picture. "Shit, can't believe we didn't notice the clouds."

"We should probably head back then, if it's going to rain," Carol commented, also straining to look through the treetops at the sky. Last time it had rained, a mighty storm followed. The group was confined to the prison for the day. "How far are we from everyone?"

Daryl shrugged. "Dunno, but we'd better get back before the weather goes to hell." His point was emphasized by a loud clap of thunder. Not even five seconds later, a burst of light illuminated the woods. Carol jumped.

"Do you think thunder attracts walkers?"

"Don'wanna be here if it does." And the first drop of rain plopped right on Daryl's nose. He went cross-eyed to look at it before jerking his head as a signal to 'get the hell outta there.' He broke into a brisk walk just as the sky began to fall. Small drops plummeted down, pattering and splashing onto leaves and bark.

Their fast paced walk morphed into a jog as another crack of thunder and barrage of lightning lit up the sky. The droplets slowly turned into sheets, almost instantly drenching Carol and Daryl. Together the two ran through brush and mud to avoid any divots or astray roots. Carol nearly ran into Daryl when he abruptly stopped in his tracks.

"Daryl, what're you—what're you doing? The prison's at least another mile and a half away…" she called out over the rain.

"We won't make it," Daryl retorted. Rain fell from his eyelashes. "If it was just rain we'd be fine but the thunderin' and lightnin' make for problems." He was silent for a moment. Thunder rang out. "Shelter. Find a house or somethin'." And they were off again, Carol's shoes slushing through the thick mud, Daryl's sideburns and hair flung carelessly into his eyes. He moved a hand and slicked his hair back.

After ten minutes of aimless jogging racing, Carol's throat ccreamed. Every deep breath stabbed at her heart, heaving chest jagged with uneven breath. She was completely soaked, thirsty, and exhausted and was too busy contemplating whether to throw her head back to catch some drops to see Daryl stop in front of her again.

"Please tell me when you're gonna stop," she huffed. Either Daryl didn't hear her over the noise or he chose to ignore her. He turned around and put a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

She could hear the low grumble of his voice. "Gimme your knife." Carol stood, gasping for her breath and reached for her weapon. She found it and thrust it into Daryl's hand, almost dropping it because of the liquid cover. Daryl moved a few feet forward, Carol wandering after him.

A noise; not thunder. It wasn't loud enough, barely audible in the storm surrounding them. A raspy groan, the sound of steel against an occipital bone and the next thing Carol knows she's being shoved by two firm hands through a door. The dewy smell of the rain, blood, and decayed flesh—the moisture caused Carol to wrinkle her nose.

As Daryl bucked the dead walker into the storm, Carol backed as far away from the door as possible. Although being out of the rain, she could still feel the pitter-patter of drops on her skin. She shook her head back and forth like a dog in an attempt to dry the soaked curls of her hair that licked her ears and the nape of her neck. Daryl used all his strength to yank the door closed through the horrific wind. It whistled as it ran along the edges of the shack (Carol assumed).

With a better look, Carol noted it was about the size of her old house's king bathroom. Mud oozed on the walls, personal items strung on the ground. A wet, weathered sleeping bag, granola bar wrappers, and empty water bottles littered the wooden floor.

"Looks like the walker I took out thought he could live in here." Daryl sniffed. "Judgin' by the smell, he didn't last long." The rain continued to beat on the roof, thunder crashing. Carol wondered if the place would hold up. She shivered subconsciously, a wave of goose bumps prickling her skin. The wind caused a cold breeze even in the hot summer air and her wet clothes weren't doing any good.

"Aw, c'mon, it ain't that bad," Daryl noted, shuffling to move the bottles off the sleeping bag. It had the tangy smell of sweat. The floor of the place was already soaked, their clothes dripping continuously. Carol took a bunch of her tank top and wrung it out in the corner. She ran a hand over her face, although it didn't really do anything. Another shiver rippled through her body.

"We'll hafta wait until the storm clears up, or at least the thunder stops. We can go back out in the rain. Rain don't hurt us." Daryl plopped down onto the sleeping bag without a second thought. It reminded him of an old hut he and Merle used to hide out in during the summer sometimes—and it smelled just about the same, too. His tattered shirt rubbed against the gunk on the wall. He didn't care; they'd just get wet later again.

Carol decided she had no option but to join him, settling herself near the closed end of the bag. The rain continued; it possessed the sky. The thunder and lightning and wind—it was all displeasing. She used to love the rain. Falling asleep to the 'pitter' of it rolling off their roof, the thunder rolling in the distance, the whistling the wind caused in the cracks of wood. She had loved it all.

Sophia never liked the storms; when she was a baby she'd scream and cry. Ed always blamed her for that, the nights never asleep because of wailing and punches thrown from an exhausted Ed. Carol smiled.

Daryl turned his head just as she grinned and he raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing's funny. It's just… when it rained… _before_—" Daryl resisted the urge to cringe. Please don't cry. "—Sophia hated the rain. I always told her that it was just God and the angels bowling up in Heaven. The thunder's the ball crashing against the pin, the lightning clapping from the angels." Her grin grew. "It helped her sleep through the storm."

Daryl was quiet.

"My daddy jus' told me to sleep or else the thunder monster would get me."

He snorted. A smirk grew on his lips. He was always terrified of that thunder monster. Carol almost threw her head back to laugh, but stopped herself. The similarities between Ed and Daryl's father were astonishing.

They didn't talk, just listened to the storm. Through the small cracks in the wall they could see lightning brightening the sky for a split second, then dim again. Carol found herself absorbed in the insight she saw, mind taken off Sophia and her wet clothes and Daryl. Her head lulled forward out of fatigue but she caught herself just before knocking her chin against her chest.

"I always slept to the rain," she whispered. Daryl didn't reply; she thought he didn't hear her until his voice filled the room.

"Just don't let the thunder monster getcha."

"Thanks, Daryl."


	5. Badass to the Power of Carol

**Prompt**: For a Caryl prompt maybe do something like Daryl wants to go hunt but Carol insists she goes with him and they get attacked by some walkers and they fight as this awesome bad ass couple. Idk, I just really want to read bad ass Carol. For **sammipoop** on tumblr.

Also I wanted to try a fic without dialogue. :)

* * *

Daryl and Carol were perched upon his motorcycle; Daryl sat in front, Carol attached to his back, hands tightly wrapped around his lower back. It had been a month – or so they assumed – since Daryl and Maggie had made the previous trip to the daycare a couple of miles away. Lil' Ass Ki—_Judith_ was running low on supplies and Carol had volunteered to fetch her necessities. Of course, they needed a ride; miles by foot would take a while, and it was already getting darker outside. That's where Daryl came in. The motorcycle was fast, even if it was loud. He didn't think twice about volunteering. It just came naturally.

It took thirty minutes to reach the daycare. Thirty minutes of constant whirring, Carol's arms enfolded across Daryl's chest. When Daryl first saw the care, he stopped the bike as far away from the place as he could. He didn't want any walkers following them.

Even after they stopped, the buzz still hummed in Carol's head. The only weapons they had were the two basics: Daryl's bow and Carol's knife. However, a pistol was safely placed in the back band of her pants. Just in case. She wasn't going to use it unless absolutely necessary.

Daryl scampered off the motorcycle, hand out for Carol to take it. She easily did so, one leg following the other as she left the bike. A head nod of gratitude. They walked through the overgrown grass- completely opposite of the prison. The prison grass seemed as if it was tamed by a nonexistent lawnmower through the months after the outbreak. But this grass was itchy, chafing against Carol's bare ankles. She spasmed out of irritation to scratch the point that pricked her repeatedly.

Daryl made sure to guide Carol away from the paper mache handprints on the wall after recalling what he'd saw on the last trip. Some of them had wrinkled and crumpled to the ground, wind carried them across the floor and into dusty, grimy corners.

Carol's throat hurt. This was a kid's play station; once housing what had to be at least thirty children, toddlers, and babies. Now the chairs were toppled over on top of each other, cabinets flung open from raiders. There was even a blood stain on one of the small toy dogs you wheel around by a little string attached to it. Sometimes they squeaked or yipped, some had slinkys as bodies.

It wasn't a hard task – take whatever was left. Ransack the place until they were sure it was void. And it hit Carol that they really weren't better than any of the raiders that had invaded the daycare earlier. But she wanted Judith to live, and that was enough motivation.

Daryl had wandered off to the kitchen-slash-feeding station, Carol left to search for diapers or clothes in the changing room. He tossed open drawers and cabinets, hastily looking for any baby formula or mush he could find. He was crouched on the floor, knees bent to achieve better leverage as he tore through empty cabinets. The white doors were still open from the last raid; Daryl decided there was nothing left in the pantries – although he was sure there was some useless stuff left last time – and meandered from door to door, knife poised.

Carol had found the diapers easily; she jammed the remaining into her bag. It wasn't for a while that she stumbled across a petite green onesie, easily fit for a newborn baby. She held it up in front of her, admiring the fact that it wasn't completely torn to shreds and marveling at how little it seemed before folding it and gently placing it with the diapers.

The lock and shot of a crossbar jarred her from her admiration, fingers slipping up against the zipper and catching the delicate skin between her index finger and thumb in the zip. She hissed, yanked it out and wiped the beading blood on her dark pink shirt. Carol darted to the room she assumed the noise to come from – two rooms down. Daryl was briskly reloading his bow as a group of walkers neared him. Where they came from, she had no idea, but she acted upon her newfound, confident instinct.

She drew her knife and pounced at one of the closest walkers. The knife embedded into the crown of its head, blood seeping from the wound onto the clenched metacarpals of her hand. It fell with a thud to the ground, something that alerted the others. Daryl had finally renewed his own weapon. He took aim – tongue still protruding from his closed lips – and shot. It went cleanly through another's eye socket, exiting through a hole the size of a nickel on the back of his head. Carol, however, was ignoring the scene around her.

Her knife had become lodged in the cranium of the walker. Another one veered towards her. Wide eyes, long, stringy brown hair, and a tattered sundress that hung loosely across her shoulder blades. Daryl was reloading; Carol had to let the knifed walker fall to the ground without her weapon situated safely in her palm. An act she knew she'd later regret – she pulled the gun from her pants and tugged the safety off. Cocked it and took aim. Her finger slowly strained against the trigger and a loud crash echoed against her eardrums.

The walker was down in a second.

Carol listened to the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins and continued to aim, pull. The kickback tossed her hands back only for them to be back, ready, and positioned. She'd found her groove. She met eyes with Daryl before pulling again. Through the ringing in her ears, she tilted her head towards the door.

_Go_.

Her shooting gave him enough time to scamper out of the room, packs of baby formula shoved into his pocket. Carol fired once more before swiftly following him outside to the bike.

No need to be there when others showed up.

As they neared the motorcycle, Daryl nodded his head at Carol. She climbed onto the bike behind him and the engine roared in their ears, driving into the setting sun on the dusty dirt road. The recognition went unspoken.


	6. Red, the Blood of Angry Men

_**Prompt:**__ Merle found a red scarf (Carol's) that fallen from Daryl's pants when they were walking back to prison. For __**againwhatgaaah**__ on tumblr._

* * *

"Whoa-_ho_, baby bro, what's this?"

Daryl stopped in his spot. Merle's rugged, raspy voice surrounded the woods around him. They'd been quiet since leaving Woodbury; that was something Daryl wasn't going to spill anytime soon, something he'd prefer not to talk about until Carol pried the details from his cold fingertips in the depths of the night.

He turned around, mouth ready to spew an insult along the lines of "Even if it's some walker's ass it's better than your face," but swallowed the nasty words as he saw Merle holding a light, pink-red scarf roughly in his hands. The thin material flowed through his callused fingers, slinking over his wrist and almost touching the wet grass. "Been wearin' lady-shit? Gonna find a skirt when we get back?" A grim smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Though I ain't believin' this color suits ya. Y'need more of a baby pink."

Daryl muttered, "Fuckin' Merle," under his breath and yanked the scarf from his brother's hand. "It ain't none of your business." His tone was harsh as he jammed it back into his back pocket. He had completely forgotten he still had Carol's scarf—after she'd… disappeared, he almost always had it on him. He just hadn't remembered to give it back to her, and it had gone with him to the daycare and back. Woodbury and back.

If Daryl weren't stupid, he'd call it a good luck charm.

"'Course it's my business! I'm your older brother, think I gotta deserve to know what that," Merle gestured his stub to Daryl's pocket, "was. Gotta girlie? Wait, y'ain't got a girl—forgot, this is _you _I'm talkin' 'bout!" He laughed, eyes crinkling in hilarity.

"Haha. So damned funny, you are," Daryl said sarcastically. His eyes were peeled to the surrounding around them; dark and the woods didn't mesh well together, and they clashed even more with the walkers wondering around. He continued to walk. When he spoke, his voice was a quieter and less ragged. "Ain't got nobody there."

"Oooooh," Merle howled. Daryl shushed him harshly. Didn't his brother know to be quiet? Then again, 'quiet' probably wasn't in Merle's dictionary. "Ya do! Let's see. Is it the one long haired one? Gah, what's her name—Lauren? Somethin' like that. The skinny one." Merle racked his brain to remember more of the girls back at the quarry almost a year ago. "Or the black one? Nah, I've taught you better than that," Merle snorted.

Daryl blood boiled, heat radiating off his skin. There was the Merle he knew. He spit at the ground and shook his head. "No."

"No? Damn, brother. Who else? Unless ya'll met a new chick I dunno... wait, there was another older lady there, right?"

Daryl froze. "What?"

"Holy _fuck_—the one wife. Not the Mexican one. Dunno her name, didn't catch my attention never to get it. With the scrawny daughter and fat husband? She didn't do much?" Daryl turned once again, eyes squinted and glaring daggers at Merle.

"Don't start with Carol, Merle," he grumbled, deep breaths fringing his words. "She does a lot now."

"Carol, that's her name!" Merle joked. "Thought that bitch'd be long dead."

Daryl couldn't restrain himself. There was the whole mess of Sophia and the comforting it dragged, the Cherokee roses and helping her get over her past, the loneliness that came in almost losing her and relief he constructed in finding her. He'd told her stay safe, and all he'd been thinking was that he'd been the who'd broken the subconscious promise.

White flashed across his eyes and he was bellowing before he could swallow his words. "Shut up, Merle! Just shut up—y'know, she's done more than you've done to me, ever, or Daddy. She'd been there even when I'm all pissy and, although she can annoy the living shit outta me, we talk. Yeah, we're friends—somethin' I won't stop ignorin' anymore, and, you're right," the words felt sour on his tongue, admitting Merle was right, "I care for her. So if ya wanna talk bad about her, screw yourself with a knife.

"She's stronger in a sense that you'll never be," Daryl finished, rolling his eyes and lumbering through the brush bitterly. Merle stayed behind, smirking.

"Ya'll's names rhyme. Ain't that cute."


	7. Dead Girl Walking Part 1

**Look, another two-parter!**

* * *

They had just settled into a new house.

It was untroubled and cabin-like; after tearing apart the wooden protections of the front door, scouring the floors and scavenging the numerous counts of cabinets, the group allowed themselves to get comfortable. Well, as comfortable as possible- throughout the last few months the word slowly translated to 'relaxed but always alert.' It was something, Carol concluded, that could only make sense in the apocalyptic hell they lived in. Of course, she had always been on-edge, walkers or no walkers.

Carol was relaxing on a cushy, pleasant chair on the main floor. It was a faded mint green and matched the yellow, rustic theme the house had followed. She ignored the puff of dust that sprung from the depths of the cushion and curled her legs up to her chest, arms wrapped around as her head rested on her knees. She stared at the couch across from her. There was an indention on the material, soft hair from what must have been a pet scattered on a blanket, along with a few splatters of blood that leaked and stained the carpet a dark scarlet below. She turned her head.

The loud clamping of boots resonated on the stairs across from her and she tensed, only for Rick, T, and Daryl to clamber down the stairs seconds later. She looked at them inquisitively, finger twirling and spinning what would have been her wedding ring. Beth's mewling voice was heard from the room next to them, separated only by a fireplace and pale yellow wall. Daryl shrugged at her.

"Nothin'. 'Less you count a dead cat upstairs as somethin'." Carol's eyes drifted back to the indentation of the couch and she shuddered. Although she hadn't been digging, there hadn't been any pictures in plain sight. And she probably wouldn't search; none of her business.

Another door slammed and Carol felt the already edgy aura around her vibrate. All fours pairs of eyes jolted to the arch leading to the room the others (including the advanced-pregnant Lori, Carl, Hershel and Beth) and all shoulders seemed to drop lightly as Glenn's voice filled the room. "Maggie and I cleared the whole basement. Nothing. Good timing we found this place, too, considering the sky now."

"The weather's also been dropping, and if we're inside, it'll be so much warmer." Beth's pure tone. Carol smiled to herself. Poor thing only had her thin, cut-off shirts. Now that Carol thought about it, that's what the majority of them had: not anything to keep them comfortable for the up and coming winter.

The men and Carol followed the wood floors to the carpet of the living room where the others were. The high ceilings were caked with natural gunk, television cracked down the center but still sturdy on the table it was settled on. Carol's eyes rested on the mantle above the fireplace and found the picture she was looking for; after taking a moment to adjust to the lowering sun, she was able to get a sharpened look. A family of four: father with a pooch of a belly, arms wrapped gently around his children; mother with a glowing smile and radiant eyes; daughter grinning sweetly in a plaid shirt; son, taller than his sister but obviously younger, with spiked blonde hair and courageous posture. There was a small dog in the lap of the mother, and the girl was restraining a cat from crawling from her grip.

It seemed, after the apocalypse, she searched extra hard for the good in people.

"Beth, this girl looks about your age," Carol spoke up, pointing to the picture. She turned to Daryl. "See any clothes anywhere?" Daryl nodded, gesturing to the second staircase behind them.

"The room up there has some. To the left."

Maggie nodded. "The big room right there," she pointed to her right. Two smaller doors were swung open and led to a bathroom. "Parent's room, I'm assuming. There're some stuff for ya'll; I'll look with Beth."

"Carl, there's a boy's room up the stairs and through the mid-room to the right; if you want to bring Hershel with you, you can check it out." Rick glanced at the photo. The boy was much, much taller than Carl, but they were almost the same in waist ratio.

Hershel hoisted himself from the couch he was situated on and nodded at Rick. "I'll take the boy. Just leave some extra shirts for me; I don't think this button down will last forever." Rick agreed and the two were ascending the stairs, Carl nearly bouncing with each step. He was getting tired of his paw-printed, science shirt. Maybe the clothes included something pink.

He looked back down at Beth, who smiled at him. Girls liked guys in pink, right?

* * *

The haul actually turned out rather well. To Carl's dismay, however, the only pink shirt was a collared button-down that nearly reached his knees. The teenage girl's closet held two pairs of jeans- way too big for Beth (she nearly tripped while walking in a pair) but fit Maggie near perfectly. A nice slew of long sleeved t-shirts and a sweatshirt with '**TWHS SOCCER**' printed in blocked letters. Beth easily took that for herself.

In the parent's closet, the adults got a wonderful find. Loose zip-ups were used for Lori, black and brown camisoles stolen to wear under shirts for extra warmth. Although the father's side of the small room consisted mostly of striped, professional collars and slacks with belts, they made it work. Carol let out a snort as Daryl held up a light blue and white thin-lined shirt in front of him and posed. "I'm cuttin' the sleeves off this thing as soon as possible," he muttered to her. Carol giggled and admired the pink shirt in front of her. It wasn't terribly thick but, with a tank top underneath, she could probably warm up to it. She took it for herself and, even after raiding other empty houses with blood spatters and boarded up windows, couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt.

"Don' feel bad," Daryl murmured. "Got that look on your face, s'nothin' wrong with it 'cause they ain't here no more."

Carol nodded and finished up her shopping.

The evening passed quickly. Just as suspected, the plumbing and water system weren't working, and there wasn't much food in the cabinets that was edible. A few packages of Saltines were passed around for dinner. It was an awful idea, as Carol looked back on the food, as the saltiness had just made her throat ache in thirst. As the time passed, grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room silent and barren, the group set up their sleeping bags throughout the rooms. The Grimes family got the biggest room, although Carol had a feeling it'd be Lori and Carl in the bed while Rick slept on the couch parallel to it.

T and Glenn wandered up to the younger boy's room after asking Daryl when he'd wake them for watch; Daryl shrugged them off and told the two to, "Shut the hell up and go sleep." They both obliged easily, dragging a sleeping bag with them.

The Greenes stole the guest bedroom, which came with twin beds and a lot of extra space. Carol assumed Hershel allowed his daughters to sleep on the beds while he unraveled the sleeping bag for himself. "Carpet's better than gravel, girls," he'd say before whispering a quick prayer subconsciously and drifting to a mode of slumber.

That left Carol with the girl's room. She left the door wide open, just in case. That seemed to be the phrase these days. _Just in case_. The pungent, tinny smell of blood hit her as soon as she walked into the room and she tried to pry her eyes away from the thick pool of dried blood that stained the orange carpet splayed on the floor. Daryl's words earlier - _'Less you count a dead cat upstairs as somethin'_ – repeated in her mind and she rolled the carper to a corner in the side of the room, thankful to find the blood hadn't soaked through to the vanilla carpeting beneath. The walls were a light teal. Inspirational pictures with quotes and famous actors littered them. Two dream catchers were nailed onto the wall next to the bed.

There was a cream dresser in the middle of two doors. Carol approached it with slight hesitation. Makeup was scattered in various piles and eyeliner leaked, the drastic coal black against the white astounding. A nest of earrings and bracelets were in a clamor next to it, along with various perfumes. Another framed picture was set on its side; Carol flipped it over and breathed heavily when the smiling faces of four young girls smiled back up at her. The one in the middle was obviously who owned this room; although much younger and a bit pudgier than the picture downstairs, it was her.

"I told'ja not to feel bad," Daryl's voiced jarred Carol from her thoughts. Her spasm of fright caused her hand to flip and the picture to fall back on its side. She left it.

"I know, it's just…" It was just what? They'd raided many houses before. Stolen food and invaded wardrobes before; it was nothing new. Carol wasn't sure why it bothered her so much.

"Just sleep." Daryl's words of wisdom, Carol thought with the beginning of a smirk. "The bed looks girly as fuck," Carol laughed and gazed at the orange and pink comforter, "but comfy as fuck, too. Better than anything we've had in months. So breathe, or somethin', and relax. I'm takin' first shift," Carol knew by 'first shift', Daryl meant 'only shift,' "so you'll be… safe'n stuff." The last sentence came out as a jumbled, slurred string of words. Carol ran a hand through her shortly cropped hair. It was getting longer, though. The texture reminded her of feathers.

"Yeah, sure," she teased, sticking her tongue out. "No, seriously, thanks. I'll take that into consideration. The last piggy Daryl Dixon is guarding the brick house from the Big Bad Wo-" but Daryl was already out of the room. His heavy footsteps pounded down the steps, but Carol was sure she heard a snort between the steps. "Night!" she called.

"Yeah, yeah," was the response.

After gawking at the bed for another minute or so, Carol's eyes began to become heavy. It was getting tougher to hold her lids open and she finally caved, internal flow of relief spreading through her body as she complied to the fatigue. The springs creaked, a noise she hadn't heard in nearly half a year, as she sat down, mattress caving under her meager weight. Her head settled into the pillow – a pillow with a musty, faint flowery scent – and she was out within sixty seconds.

Her mind didn't drift to the fact that she was sleeping in a dead girl's bed.


	8. I Will

**Very short, but please enjoy! :)**

* * *

At first, the only emotion was terror.

Her breath stopped short in her chest, jagged whispers short circuiting and electrifying her brain. The car was empty, the backseat held no sulking, cursing, spitting Daryl. Immediately Carol felt the glands in her palms sweat profusely, she felt the drainage of the blood emptying her face. Her hand felt the glass window of the car, warm to the touch, and she broke out of her trance. Baby blue eyes, close to tears, she knew it, she _felt _them coming on but just _couldn't _allow herself to cry—

"Where's Daryl?" Her voice broke mid-sentence. The sweaty palm rested on her stomach, shoving the overpowering sickness swirling into the abyss. The world around her was endless; one thing was on her mind. One person.

"He's not dead. We ran into his brother, they went off." Rick's drawl broke her.

Then it was heartbreak.

Carol felt as if her heart was harshly torn out of her chest, shredded into thousands of pieces, and smothered into the dirt. "Daryl left?" she hated the quiver in her voice, the cock of her head in order to keep her emotions balanced. She despised the warmth that flooded her body in a quick moment of anger, inhaled shakily. "Is he coming back?"

The eye contact wasn't kept. His gaze drifted to Carl, to the trees and the walkers hoarding the gate.

Rick was silent. He looked at her directly- broken, fatigued -and said nothing.

He didn't know.

That damn well should've broken her.

Carol could only manage a nod and, subconsciously pulling from Rick's gentle touch to her shoulder, diverted her own eyes back up toward the bright simmer of the sun. Her lips pursed – don't cry, _don't _cry – and nostrils flared and she couldn't help but swallow the sob that nearly escaped her beaten body. Her feet carried her along the grounds, through the gate, but Carol felt numb. Her hands twitched at her side and Rick was next to her.

She didn't recognize the own look of hurt displayed on his features.

She collapsed into his arms, limbs drooping limply at her sides; the sour smell of sweat and irony odor of blood didn't bother her. The groans of the walkers were drowned out by her own blood thumping in her ears. The metallic _cling _of the gate closing, she didn't hear, and one line echoed monotonously through her mind.

_Stay safe._

Oh, she would.

And, through the battered world around her, through the aching eyes of her family – her _family_ - she knew he would too.


	9. Losing Becomes Too Easy

**Takes place after the events of 'Home'. Spoilers if you haven't seen it yet.**

* * *

She wasn't expecting the warm, gooey felt that splashed onto her own grimy skin. She wasn't expecting the tangy, irony liquid to fill her nostrils and splatter her eyes. She wasn't expecting the horrendous shot that sounded just milliseconds after Axel's body hit the ground. The sudden inhalation of her breath caused Carol to choke on her own saliva but she immediately dropped to the ground.

Now that she looks back on it, scrunched up against the sweltering cement that burned her bare shoulders and away from current danger, she was never expecting any of it.

The first miscarriage, however many years ago that was. She'd lost count and, after Sophia, tried not to think about it.

The first slap; Ed started out with words – "It's fault the baby died," and, after giving birth, "Look, ya've done somethin' right for once." – and slowly progressed to touching. It wasn't just slaps across the face, but pounding fists and the rash odor of liquor, bruises that didn't calm for days. Sex that hurt, that she got no pleasure out of.

She wasn't expecting Sophia to go missing. Carol had promised herself that she would her protect her baby if it would kill her.

She believed the wrong person died in the end.

But now, as she sat on the warm, scratchy floor and observed the group around her, the wrong person didn't die. No, Sophia shouldn't have been lost, not this early in her life, but maybe Carol was given a second chance. To help the baby, to teach two young women.

To mentor a man who has grown softer.

"What'cha smilin' for?" Daryl's gruff mumble yanked Carol from her thoughts. "Don' think this ain't no time to be happy, 'specially for you," he continued, hovering from one foot to the other. Every other second his head would jerk around, side to side, watching. Carol knew he was looking out for Merle. Carol wasn't too pleased about _that _situation, but Daryl was grown and would eventually do what he felt was right.

He had a rag, doused only in a bit of water, and handed it to her. "Thanks," she whispered and began to rinse some of Axel's blood off her grimy skin.

"Some on your nose, don' forget that."

"Yessir."

Carol began to stand in a hunt of something that had a reflection for a makeshift mirror, until Daryl shook his shoulders and, with a quick glance behind his shoulder, hunched over next to her. He grabbed the rag from her hands and began to rub at the splatters and chunks tentatively. Carol smirked. Daryl grunted, "Shut up, ya would miss half of it," and resumed the cleaning.

"Ya know, ya don't seem that… uh, disturbed about what just happened," Daryl continued on, using a finger under the cloth to cleanse her cheekbone.

"Oh, trust me, I'm shaken up. With the Governor coming here, I'm not sure of what will happen to the prison, to everybody." Carol glanced at the gate. "We may have to move positions and, as much as I don't want that happening, the reality is… we're never going to be safe. I'm promising myself I won't mope around, I won't be a burden. I'm changing, Daryl, because," Daryl paused for a moment, sparing a glance and meeting her eyes for what felt the first time in months.

"Well, sometimes, losing just becomes too easy."


End file.
